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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204890">The C-Word</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede'>Guede</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Theory [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hornblower (TV), King Arthur (2004)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Derogatory Language, F/M, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Polyamory, Secrets, Vaginal Fingering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:01:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204890</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shh! 'Commitment' is a dangerous thing to say.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Castus/Guinevere/Lancelot, Galahad (King Arthur 2004)/Mariette (Hornblower), Gawain/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Theory [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Scouting the Territory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2005.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lancelot ran to the railing and nearly threw himself over it in trying to catch sight of the suspect.  He spotted the man scrambling down a nearby staircase, scanned around for a quick intercept and saw a chandelier right above where the bastard would be in five seconds.</p>
<p>“Don’t!  That’s priceless!  It’s on loan from the Louvre!” the curator yelled, coming down the hall.</p>
<p>Cursing, Lancelot jerked his hand from his gun and instead hopped up onto the rail.  He swayed, then leaped for the broad marble rail of the stairway and let gravity and the smooth soles of his dress shoes do the rest.</p>
<p>The suspect looked back, saw Lancelot skating down like a maniac towards him and panicked.  Threw up his hands—a little late for that, wasn’t it—and screamed something.  At the last moment he realized he could still dodge sideways and started to spin, so when Lancelot finally collided with him, he hit the man’s arm first.  Got a nail scraping up his cheek; he jerked away from it just in time to crack elbow- and foot-first into the floor.  The rest of him was nicely padded by the other man’s body, so when Lancelot rolled off he wasn’t feeling too bad.  His suit was badly mussed, but otherwise he seemed to be—</p>
<p>--and there went his foot, sliding out from under him as his ankle exploded.  He smacked down on his ass right as Guinevere skidded to a stop beside him.  Of course, she didn’t have a hair out of place…because she’d stolen his goddamn hair gel earlier.  “Well, skater-boy, how are we feeling?”</p>
<p>“Tip-top.”  Lancelot ignored her and crawled over to the moaning man who’d just ruined his week.  A bit of checking showed that he wasn’t much more than bruised, and while Lancelot was tempted to rectify that, he supposed there couldn’t be an indictment without someone to indict.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Guin had knelt down to start poking at Lancelot’s ankle.  She picked it up and carefully pulled off the shoe, then rotated it very gently.  Nothing hurt, and Lancelot was beginning to think maybe it’d just been a fluke when she suddenly pressed her fingers into something that made him hiss and kick her over.  “Ow!”</p>
<p>“Ow?  You nearly twisted off my foot!” he snapped.  He pulled up his trouser-leg to have his own look and was greeted by an ugly blue-green swelling around the joint, which rather resembled Guin’s face once she’d slapped on a seaweed mask.</p>
<p>“Sprained,” she confirmed.  Her smile wasn’t quite sympathetic.  “Looks like you’re stuck home for a bit.”</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>8 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>	It was nice to be able to sleep in an extra hour, and to be able to roll from bed into one of Arthur’s buttondowns and sweats, but having to use a crutch to get downstairs was an utter pain.  Twice Lancelot barked his shins with the damn thing, and once it slipped out to leave him clinging desperately to the rail.  He finally gave up, threw the useless piece of shite to the bottom and then scooted himself down after it.  No one was around to see, after all.</p>
<p>	Unfortunately, Guinevere was still in the kitchen and judging by her smile, she’d only needed to hear to figure out what had been going on.  She handed him a plate of breakfast and followed up with a tart comment, like the tart she was.  “You and rise and shine don’t seem to have much acquaintance.  Need me to help with anything?”</p>
<p>	“You could stick your head in the oven.  There’s a good girl.”  Lancelot leaned against the island and looked at the refrigerator.  He really would have liked a glass of milk, but getting that either meant asking Guin, who was looking as if she’d like to stab him with her fork, or fumbling towards it on the stupid crutch.  In front of Guinevere.</p>
<p>“It’s electric.  How about I collect your undone write-ups so you can do them tomorrow?  That’s a good, proper girl for you.”  She stuffed the last of her pancakes in her mouth, then turned to rinse the plate in the sink.  “Oh, Arthur’s staying home to work today, so you’ll have someone to pester.”</p>
<p>That was…sweet and vaguely annoying of him.  But the pros of having him around very quickly outweighed the cons and Lancelot began eating with a lighter heart, if still with a dry mouth.  It tasted as if Arthur had made the pancakes, too.  “Where is he?”</p>
<p>“Went out to do a bit of grocery-shopping.”  Guinevere wiped off her hands on a rag before coming over to Lancelot.  She stared till he lifted his head and arched an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“What?”  If he were insane, he’d say she looked worried.</p>
<p>Slow as honey, she leaned forward till their noses were touching.  Her hand landed on his back, then moved languidly up and down to trace the lines of his muscles.  “Lancelot?  I’ve told Arthur to call if he needs me to come back and make you shut up.  And I have two very important meetings today, so I <i>don’t want to come back</i>.”  Then she stood back and smiled, pleasant as a grandmother offering another cookie.  “Is that clear?”</p>
<p>“So no good-bye kiss?”  Well, that was a relief.  If Guin ever started acting like she cared, Lancelot would think she was really planning to kill him.  He grinned as irritatingly as he could and stuck a piece of food in his mouth, chewing loudly.</p>
<p>“Only at your funeral,” she snapped, stalking towards the door.  Halfway there she stopped, scooped something from the chair and flung it at him.</p>
<p>Normally he’d catch it without any problems, but she’d thrown it at his sprained side.  When he stretched out to grab it, the crutch slipped out from under his arm.  Which meant he automatically started to grab for that too, and then the bloody thing tangled in his knees, and the upshot of the whole thing was that Lancelot ended up aching on the floor while Arthur stared down at him and Guin cackled her way out the front door.</p>
<p>After a moment, Arthur shifted all his plastic bags to one hand and offered his freed one.  “Are you all right?”</p>
<p>“Perfect.  I’m just going to rig up the kitchen knives to behead her when she walks back in tonight, if you don’t mind.”  Lancelot took the hand and between it and the edge of the counter, managed to get himself back on his feet.  He flapped his shirt straight and got himself into a chair before gravity decided to abuse him any more.  It really wasn’t fair—he wasn’t the one who went about in teetering fuck-me heels…</p>
<p>Arthur apparently decided Lancelot was joking and began to put away the groceries.  While dealing with the onions, he stumbled over Lancelot’s crutch.  “Don’t you want this?”</p>
<p>“Do I want it?  No.  Do I—just give me the damn thing.”  He yanked it from Arthur and banged it onto the seat next to him.  The pancakes were very good, but they were making Lancelot thirstier by the second.</p>
<p>Well, it was Arthur, and Arthur didn’t gloat.  “And…could you get me a glass of milk?”</p>
<p>It appeared by Lancelot’s elbow a second later.  Then Arthur passed behind him to put away the canned foods, which incidentally made him bend over right in Lancelot’s line of sight.  “Did you want anything else?”</p>
<p>“Besides Guin’s head and a good ankle?”  Lancelot pretended to consider the matter while Arthur stood up.  When the other man made to cross behind him again, he pushed the chair around and hooked his fingers through Arthur’s belt-loops.  “Possibly.  So you’re staying home?”</p>
<p>“Yes…”  Arthur warily watched Lancelot’s fingers crawl up his front towards his tie, which he would wear even though he wasn’t headed for the office.  He lifted off Lancelot’s fingers and folded his hand around them so they couldn’t grab anything else.  “To do some proofreading.”</p>
<p>Pity for him that Lancelot’s other hand was free to grab Arthur’s arm.  He faked a loss of balance that had Arthur grabbing for him and used the opportunity to get up on his knees on the chair.  “And that’ll take you the whole day?”</p>
<p>“With you around it will,” Arthur muttered, ducking his head to take Lancelot’s mouth with a surprising savagery, given the hour.  Usually he put up a fight till lunch, at least.</p>
<p>Not that Lancelot was protesting.  On the contrary, he was hooking his arm around Arthur’s neck and encouraging with his tongue and generally—oh, now there was a nice match-up of rising pricks and thighs.  He grinned and pressed up into it, which made Arthur’s breath catch in Lancelot’s mouth.</p>
<p>“Is that my shirt?” Arthur asked, shifting to Lancelot’s neck.  He let go of Lancelot’s hands and his fingers finally started to drift southwards.</p>
<p>Lancelot groped about till he found Arthur’s waistband and worked his hand beneath it.  “It’s a nice shirt.  It looks good on me.”</p>
<p>“You think everything looks good on you.”  Every word was a nip at Lancelot’s throat, leaving a tingling behind that Arthur’s tongue bathed into a low shiver.</p>
<p>“Well, if you want it back all you have to do is take it off,” Lancelot said, nuzzling at Arthur’s ear.  He sucked the soft lobe into his mouth and tugged at it, then—</p>
<p>--Arthur stopped.  More specifically, he stopped by squeezing Lancelot’s arse and jerking up his head to stare at the kitchen window.  While the first one was quite welcome, the second wasn’t.  “What?”</p>
<p>Instead of answering him, Arthur <i>completely</i> stopped.  That was, he let go of Lancelot and went to the back-door so Lancelot got another nice look at his arse, only in a much less satisfying context than that which they’d been engaged in creating a second ago.  “Tristan?”</p>
<p>Something rustled, and then Tristan’s face appeared on the other side of the screen.  “You were busy.  I can come back after my afternoon class.”</p>
<p>And of course Arthur wasn’t going to take that.  Lancelot sat back down and put his head in his hands.  <i>No, no, I’ve got a moment now</i>, he mouthed.</p>
<p>“No, I’ve got a moment now,” Arthur said.  Accommodating cocktease.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>9:30 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Tristan’s interruption had given Arthur enough time to recover his senses, so that meant he’d paused to peck Lancelot on the lips and then had fled to the library to do <i>work</i>.  While Lancelot finished his breakfast with only the newspaper to keep him company.  The weekday comics weren’t that amusing, and reading the obituaries was only fun if Guinevere was around to mock the euphemisms with him.</p>
<p>He pointedly did not wash the dishes, though he did limp-carry them over to the sink.  Anything upstairs was out of the question since that would’ve involved trusting the stupid crutch too much, and that particular object had already proved it hated Lancelot.  Which left…Lancelot hobbled around till he found where he’d dropped his keys and looked at the smaller ones that were for those mysterious lockboxes Arthur had scattered about the house.  The nearest one was in the same room, so Lancelot gratefully tossed his glorified walking stick onto a couch and got down on his knees.</p>
<p>The lockbox was tucked behind the bound editions of some philosophical journal that felt like they were made out of solid gold.  After hefting them aside, Lancelot let himself flop on the carpet and took a short break.</p>
<p>Whereupon Arthur, displaying his talent for walking in at exactly the wrong time, entered the room.  Curiously, he was so intent on something that he seemed to completely miss Lancelot’s spastic jerk upright.  “Oh, that’s where you went.”  Going over to a statue that Guin had identified as a highly marketable piece of goods.  “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”  Knocking off its head against the sofa arm.  “Or did you need anything?”</p>
<p>Lancelot blinked, then shook himself so his brain would get over the surprise.  He watched as Arthur pulled out a handful of papers from his very high-quality fake, frowned at them, and then stuffed them back into the cavity.  “No.  What’s that?”</p>
<p>“A small replica of a—”</p>
<p>“No, the papers.  What, did Tristan come with more bad news?”  Now that Lancelot was thinking about it, Tristan usually came in the front door when he was on a regular visit.  When he showed up in the shrubbery was when Guin started to gnaw on her lip and obsessively check up on the big criminals in town.  Though Lancelot wasn’t nearly that paranoid, he also wasn’t a fool.  “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>And as usual, Arthur said, “Nothing.  I just needed to look up something.”  He popped the statue’s head back on and set it on the table.  Then he began to go, but something caught his attention and he paused.  Stared at the statue.  Put out a finger and carefully adjusted it a fraction of an inch.</p>
<p>Lancelot just flopped.  Words couldn’t express his amusement and irritation, and anyway, Arthur wasn’t going to notice any loss of dignity in the room.</p>
<p>Looking thoughtful at something that wasn’t Lancelot, Arthur walked back out.  “I’ll call you for lunch.”</p>
<p>“Mrraow,” Lancelot muttered, utterly disgusted.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>11 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Well, that lockbox hadn’t held any explanations, either for whatever was currently bothering Arthur or for any of the mysterious things that had bothered him in the past.  It had held some photos of faces Lancelot needed to look up later, and a packet of letters, but the writing in them was so innocent and boring that it had to be a code of some sort.  Probably Arthur could read it as effortlessly as he did Latin and ancient Greek and so he hadn’t felt the need to store the key or even decoded versions with them.  Yes, having the keys everything in the house was a lovely gesture on his part, but it wasn’t a very substantial one if Lancelot couldn’t fathom what was in the boxes and why it was being hidden away.</p>
<p>He was absently reordering things as he put them back in the box when Arthur came back in, looking a little sheepish.  “Lancelot?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?”  So the letters had been in chronological order from earliest to latest.  Therefore Lancelot was going to put them latest to earliest.</p>
<p>“I think I might’ve brushed you off before.”  Two fingers touched the back of Lancelot’s neck.  They rested there a moment before stroking down his shoulder and curving round to trace slow warm circles on his back.  Then Arthur moved up to kiss at the invisible lines he’d just drawn.  “Sorry.  Tristan tends to throw me out of whatever mood I’m in when he shows up.”</p>
<p>His kisses were beginning to make the heat gather in Lancelot’s gut, but…no, not that easy.  No matter what Guinevere said, sex did not fix everything with him.  Even when that meant there was a hot mouth nudging at the back of his neck and hands smoothing round to his belly and then down…“It was a little annoying.  What sent you off in such a rush?”</p>
<p>“Insulting to your pride, I’d imagine.”  Ah, Arthur was feeling playful.  And his hands were having quite a bit of fun rumpling the soft fabric of Lancelot’s worn sweats, but he still wasn’t answering the damn question.</p>
<p>“My pride can take more than a slight,” Lancelot sniffed, turning around to look at Arthur.  He trapped the other man’s hands on the insides of his thighs.  “What’d he say?”</p>
<p>Arthur paused.</p>
<p>And Lancelot’s temper needed to snap just a bit.  He twisted all the way around and got Arthur up against a chair, then straddled the man so he’d stay put.  “Arthur, for God’s sake.  If you don’t feel like telling me the whole epic, you don’t have to.  I just want something—the abridged version.  Cliff’s Notes.  Hell, just a ‘bit of a problem from my days of being Secret Agent Man’ would do me.”</p>
<p>That move had bumped Lancelot’s ankle and it was starting to ache, which didn’t help his mood.  Neither did Arthur’s <i>silent</i> contemplation of Lancelot’s words.  The other man started to raise his hand to Lancelot, but Lancelot smacked it down.  “Do <i>not</i> be condescending to me, goddamn you.  I’m already having a shit of a week and I’m not in a mood to put up with this.  What the hell’s the point of giving us keys?  It’s like—‘here, go off and solve the puzzle while I continue to stonewall.’”</p>
<p>“Lancelot.”  Arthur made another try for Lancelot’s hand, got it, and yanked so Lancelot fell against him.  His eyes were very somber, very nervous, and he’d just made Lancelot whack his sprained ankle against a table leg.  “It’s a small carry-over from my days of working with the government.”  Hesitant intake of breath.  “Are you actually satisfied with that?”</p>
<p>“No, and damn you for sounding hopeful.  Also, let go of me.  My ankle hurts, and—”  Lancelot tugged at his hand and for a moment, he thought he felt it slipping free, but it was just Arthur giving him slack so he’d be off-balance when the other man pulled him back.  At least this time, Arthur didn’t fling him into the furniture.</p>
<p>Instead he took Lancelot’s face in his hands, drew a deep breath, and…tried to say something.  Twice.  His lips moved and a few sounds came out, but they were incoherent as if he couldn’t help strangling himself.  Which was a pretty apt metaphor, come to think of it.</p>
<p>“I’m interrupting your work,” Lancelot coldly said.  He shook off Arthur and started to climb off, only to be hauled back by the waist.  “Arthur, would you just—”</p>
<p>“Look, even when I was working for them, I didn’t talk about what I did.  No one did because the moment someone slipped up, people died.”  The voice in Lancelot’s ear was fierce and urgent and full of old scars, and the way Arthur was holding onto Lancelot felt like he was trying less to keep Lancelot from going and more like he was trying to force down something dark.  “This is not exactly easy for me.”</p>
<p>Okay.  Progress.  Progress that was crushing Lancelot’s ribs, but he had a feeling that now was not the time to point that out.  He carefully settled himself back in Arthur’s lap and patted at Arthur’s hands.  “What if I ask questions?  Did someone turn up dead?”</p>
<p>After a moment, Arthur shook his head.  His voice was still tight, but it seemed a bit more relaxed.  “No.”</p>
<p>“Someone turn up alive?”</p>
<p>“Possibly.”  Warm breath gusted over Lancelot’s shoulder as Arthur pressed his lips to Lancelot’s temple.  His eyelashes fluttered against Lancelot’s skin as he rubbed his cheek against Lancelot’s.  “I don’t know.  It’ll probably turn out to be nothing, but it’s usually a bad idea not to think about what happens if it doesn’t.  Is your ankle all right?”</p>
<p>Lancelot pried at Arthur’s fingers till he could get his own entwined with them.  “It’s okay.  Anyway, I don’t shoot with it.”</p>
<p>That got a low chuckle from Arthur, and a beat later, Arthur relaxing with a sharp shudder.  He rested his head on Lancelot’s shoulder, recovering, while Lancelot considered Arthur’s hands.  He pulled them down between his legs, which made Arthur laugh again, but in an entirely different tone.  Soon Lancelot was arching and moaning as they finally got back to what they’d started, hands slowly working down his sweats and a mouth running over the curve of his throat.  He twisted around so he could see Arthur’s face—</p>
<p>--and the doorbell rang.  Arthur closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them to…laugh a third time at Lancelot.  “Don’t do that with your face.  You look twelve years old that way.”</p>
<p>“I feel like I’m twelve again,” Lancelot grumbled, tugging his pants back up.  “World won’t let me to do anything fun.”</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>12:30 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Their visitor had not been Tristan, but a Slavic-looking woman who’d taken one look at Lancelot and had immediately dragged Arthur out to have a conversation too low to be overheard.  Lancelot was rather aware that he looked scruffy at the moment, and so he’d retreated to the kitchen instead of making himself look ridiculous in front of Arthur.</p>
<p>Not that he wasn’t already a figure of ridicule, settling for so little when in all his previous relationships, he’d been the one making the demands.  Why the hell did he do it?</p>
<p>And now the front door was closing, which mean Arthur would wander through the kitchen with a distant expression, see Lancelot and remember to toss off some vague excuse before he went back to his secretive little doings.  Lancelot hauled himself onto the kitchen counter and got himself comfortable.</p>
<p>Arthur walked in five seconds later, thinking so hard on something that he nearly tripped over Lancelot’s crutch, which Lancelot had left leaning against the counter.  He sighed and bent over to pick it up, which was how he noticed Lancelot’s foot.  Then he stood up to face the rest of Lancelot.  “I need to run out after lunch to mail something.  Do you mind washing up by yourself?”</p>
<p>“Actually, yes.  As you can see from my breakfast plate.”  Which Lancelot pulled from the sink to show in all its unwashed glory to Arthur.  “Exhibit A.”  He put it back down and grabbed the edge of the counter so he wouldn’t try to punch Arthur and accidentally throw himself off.  “Who the hell was that?  Old college classmate?  Somebody that’s got a file at my office?”</p>
<p>Cue Arthur-the-peacemaker.  His eyes went all serious and pleading and soft, and he lifted his hands to Lancelot’s knees.  “Lancelot—”</p>
<p>“Goddamn it, do you hear a word I say?  Even Guin listens, if only so she can turn it back on me as an insult later.  What the hell did we just discuss?”  And at that point, Lancelot couldn’t help himself.  He ripped his hand from the counter and gestured wildly to illustrate his sheer frustration.  Damn him, but Arthur managed to back Lancelot into corners he didn’t even know existed.  “Oh, wait, it’s hard.  I have to make allowances.  Do you think it’s hard being the one who’s always the bastard?  Being the nasty prodding son of a bitch that won’t stop nagging you?  What the fuck do you want?  A monk?”</p>
<p>“No,” Arthur said.  He sounded firm about that, at least.  But then he tried to grab Lancelot’s hand.</p>
<p>Well, there wouldn’t be any of that.  They’d already tried that route, and look how long Arthur’s memory had lasted.  About as long as it’d taken Lancelot to finally succumb to the urge to just lose himself in Arthur’s body.  “Oh, good.  Because I am not a self-sacrificing little whore.  I’m not going to put up with your shit just because it’s you.  You’ve got a dirty past—fine.  You don’t like talking about it—fine.  But there’s what people want to know and what they need to know, and you don’t give me either, Arthur.”</p>
<p>Somewhere along the line, Lancelot’s other hand had joined his first in waving around in the air.  Now he dropped them to Arthur’s wrists and squeezed hard.  “What’s the point of letting us stay here if you don’t want us living here?  I might as well get my own apartment and just show up for sex.”</p>
<p>“Because I do want you living here,” Arthur replied, so ferociously that Lancelot almost, almost let the whole thing drop.</p>
<p>Almost.  “But there’s just this little thing, Arthur.  This little, tiny thing.  <i>You don’t.</i>.  See, you’ve got your life before, and your life now, and they’re both in this house.  They both keep showing up.  And how the fuck am I supposed to deal with your life before if you don’t tell me something?  It’s not going to go away—what if some day I end up killing some friend of yours because of my job?  What happens if some weirdo shows up when you aren’t around and it’s only me or Guin, and we say the wrong thing?  What the fuck happens if one day you don’t come home because something went wrong, and we can’t figure out what?”</p>
<p>Finally Arthur had gotten the message and had stopped trying to placate Lancelot.  He just stood there, hands lying loosely over Lancelot’s wrists and eyes burning into Lancelot like they’d just met and he was already thinking about not letting go.</p>
<p>“And aside from that, do you know how <i>condescending</i> you are?  You throw off some bloody pathetic excuse and you expect me to—what kind of Interpol agent do you think I am?  You know, I could dig it all up if I really wanted to.  If I really, really wanted to push it and make everything about this.  But I don’t.  I want this to just get dealt with and put under the table, and I want you to do it, and when the hell are you going to interrupt me?”</p>
<p>Arthur blinked.  “What?”</p>
<p>“Because I’ve hit all the high points but I’m still going to keep going because that’s what I do, you idiot.  But you, you let me run on and on because you think you can outwait me.”  Lancelot watched himself jerking at Arthur’s hands while his mouth just kept going.  He’d been bottling up a bit more than he’d thought.  “You think I’ll wear myself out and forget about it like the pretty thing I am.  Well, I’m not that airheaded.”</p>
<p>“Lancelot—”</p>
<p>“Don’t interrupt me!  You never fucking listen to me, so don’t you start now.  You’re the first goddamned lover I’ve had that I think would hurt me more than I could hurt back, and do you know how fucking terrified I am on top of everything el—mmph!”</p>
<p>The back of Lancelot’s head hit the cabinet.  He flailed for support, but only found Arthur.  So he grabbed the other man, clung to him while Arthur did his damnedest to bring Lancelot’s mind to a complete stop.  Which he succeeded in doing; Lancelot’s body melted downward from the burning join of their mouths and soaked into Arthur’s, his hands sticking to Arthur’s shoulders and back, his knees to the sides of Arthur’s legs.</p>
<p>When Arthur finally lifted his head, Lancelot couldn’t even see beyond blurry ball-shaped things.  It took Arthur two tries before Lancelot understood that he was saying something.</p>
<p>“…name’s Sophia.  I worked with her a few times, and she showed up because she wanted to know something about an African politician I had a few run-ins with.  In return, she wipes my name from some files in an office in Russia.”  Then Arthur pressed his forehead against Lancelot’s and breathed very slowly and roughly and shallowly, as if his lungs were filling up.</p>
<p>Eventually Lancelot put his hand on the back of Arthur’s neck.  He pulled them closer together, then tugged till Arthur was off of him.  “Thank you.  Now you can go mail whatever.”</p>
<p>And he could sit on the counter and wonder what the hell had gotten into him.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>12: 45 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Guinevere picked up on the fifth ring.  *Lancelot, you jackass piece of shite.  What’d you do?*</p>
<p>It was awkward trying to stand by the phone without putting weight on his bad ankle, so Lancelot leaned against the fridge and tried to stretch to hook the nearest chair.  But the damned thing was two inches too far and he didn’t feel like falling on the floor while she could hear him.  “Guin, love, I’d like you to be honest with me.”</p>
<p>*I am honest with you.  If I were nice, then I’d be lying.*  She paused, then said in a different tone: *What happened?*</p>
<p>“Arthur’s fine, he’s out running errands, and I am, much to your disappointment, still in one piece.  I just needed to know something.”  He reached up and grabbed the top edge of the fridge, lifting himself to temporarily ease the strain on his good leg.  But he couldn’t hold that for too long and so had to thump back down.  “Guin, what kind of person did I date before Arthur?”</p>
<p>She was so quiet that he nearly thought he’d kill her.  However, it took more than that to level Guinevere for long.  *Beautiful, stupid, shallow people that weren’t worth the trouble to dump in person.  Always surprised me that you took the time to do that anyway.*</p>
<p>“Well, it makes it clear.  Just in case they’re <i>too</i> stupid to understand a phone message,” Lancelot muttered.  He shifted the phone to his other ear and tried again to hook the chair.</p>
<p>*In other words, you dated disposables,* Guin went on.  *You didn’t want to be inconvenienced, and whenever one started to, you just dropped them without any hassles.  Whereas Arthur is clearly not disposable and would make an utter mess of you.  Also, I’d bet he’d be the one who’d do the leaving.*</p>
<p>Trust her to go farther than the letter of the request.  “Thank you ever so much, wise Guin.  They should give you a newspaper column so you can spread your counsel far and wide.  It’d triple the suicide rate.  I wasn’t asking about what I’m like dating Arthur.”</p>
<p>*If you’re going to ask for honesty—and for that matter, ask a question like that—you should expect it.  And by the way, we never dated.  We just skipped directly to fighting with each other.  So why’d you call?  Finally figure out you’re in love with him?*</p>
<p>“In love with him?  All right, time to get back to your meetings, Guin.”  And Lancelot would have hung up, except just then he looked straight in front of himself and noticed that Arthur, instead of leaving for the post office, had come back to stare at him.  His foot slipped and he would’ve hit the floor if Arthur hadn’t chosen that moment to step up and pin him to the fridge.</p>
<p>Guinevere was laughing at him.  *You are, you know.  It’s rather fun to watch you completely fail to cope.*</p>
<p>And Arthur went down to his knees, one hand holding Lancelot’s hip to the fridge while the other loosened his tie.  He didn’t speak or show any expression, but his eyes were reminding Lancelot’s bones that they were supposed to be limp.  Then he pulled down Lancelot’s sweats and took Lancelot’s prick into his mouth in a single motion.</p>
<p>Lancelot’s bones went limp.  He barely saved himself by grabbing the top of the fridge, and even then his feet were slipping.  “Guin, you’re a cunt,” he wheezed.</p>
<p>*But I’m right.  Why else would you break pattern?*</p>
<p>Arthur’s mouth was a hot silken constriction that drained the sense from Lancelot’s head and clamped iron bands around his breath.  In two seconds it reduced him to a complete uncomprehending mess, just as Guin had predicted.  His head was straining so far back that he could see the tendons stand out of his wrist, and his knees were shaking with every long suck that Arthur took.  “Because…because…because Christ, I can’t help it!  He’s—just—oh, God--”</p>
<p>*See?...wait a minute.  You’re having sex with him!  I can hear—Lancelot, you lying prick of a whore, you are dead the moment I get home.  I’m actually helpful, and you repay me by some sick gloating prank?  You fuck!*  She slammed down the phone.</p>
<p>And Lancelot’s climax just slammed him back into the fridge.  His vision blurred and he heard the refrigerator bump the counter, but mainly he was collapsing into Arthur’s hands.  </p>
<p>They propped him up till he could manage a parody of a stand.  Then Arthur sat on his heels, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and looked up so that Lancelot could see every raw layer in his eyes.  He spoke as if he were making a final speech in a courtroom.  “I love you.  I’m terrified that you’ll find out something about me that’ll make you leave.”</p>
<p>Which took out the last shred of strength from Lancelot’s knees.  He went down in a jumble, banging his head and twisting his sprain and bruising his arse for the second time in a week.  And for some reason, he was still holding onto the phone.</p>
<p>Arthur straightened him out on the floor and crawled on top of him.  “Are you all right?”</p>
<p>“Why do I always end up on my arse around you?” Lancelot asked.  He sounded plaintive and yes, about twelve years old.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for it.”  Arthur leaned down and kissed him.  And Lancelot dropped the phone and wrapped his arms around him, and after they stopped whining, his legs as well, and…</p>
<p>…Arthur’s cell rang.  Lancelot yanked it out of Arthur’s pants-pocket and tossed it into the next room.  “Because I love you, you frustrating idiot, so you’d better not be sorry for it.  My God, if she gloats, I’ll ki—mmm…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Forward Planning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>7:00 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Something stubbed Galahad’s toe.  He tried to kick it aside, but it wouldn’t move and instead made his foot hurt even more.  “Fuck.”</p>
<p>“That’s the couch, Galahad.  Furniture.  Solid thing.  Immovable—”</p>
<p>“Shut up and go back to bed,” Galahad muttered, limping the rest of the way across the room.  He leaned against what, after some patting, he figured was the fridge and rubbed his eyes till he could see.  Then he rubbed them some more, just to make sure it wasn’t him before he went and made any baseless accusations…damn, the higher education was starting to sink in.</p>
<p>Anyway, it wasn’t him.  It was Gawain standing in front of the stove with one earbud stuck firmly in his right ear and the other dangling dangerously near the frying pan with which he was dancing.  Sort of.  Gawain did know how to dance, but right now, what he was doing with spatula and pan looked more like a Saturday morning cartoon on a sugar high.  There was a bowl of batter to his right, and a pile of delicious-smelling crêpes to his left.  And when he glanced over his shoulder, Galahad saw that there was a smile on his face.</p>
<p>Christ.  His fucking roommate had gone nuts.  “’wain, have you looked at a clock yet?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  It’s a quarter after.”  More crazed head-bopping.  Another crêpe found its way onto the stack.</p>
<p>“Quarter after <i>seven</i>.  In the morning.  The day after we finished regrades and submitted the rest of the final scores.  One of three precious days before we switch from being GSIs to actual researching grad students.”  Galahad wanted to drop his head into his hands.  After so many years, he would’ve thought Gawain would have learned better by now, but clearly it was a hopeless case.  “What the hell are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Aside from watching you stuff your face with the food I’ve just made?”  Jar of strawberry jam shoved in Galahad’s face.  When he grudgingly took it, Gawain grinned even wider.  Then the other man turned back to the stove and dropped in the last spoonfuls of batter.  “Tristan and I are going to the zoo as soon as he shows up.”</p>
<p>Chewing thoughtfully, Galahad retreated with his breakfast to the safety of the table.  If Gawain really lost it, then he could flip it over and use one of the chairs to fend off the other man.  “You still have your dick, right?  Because you sound so fucking girly…”</p>
<p>Gawain waved the frying pan.  He looked a little less bouncy.</p>
<p>“I mean, honestly.  There are plenty of places to have outdoor sex on-campus.  Unless you’ve got a secret animal-voyeur kink that you’ve never told me about…”</p>
<p>The frying pan stopped waving, and Gawain began to roll his shoulders, as if loosening up for a swing.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, bad joke.  It’s fucking seven in the fucking morning—you can’t expect me to be thinking yet.”  Galahad slapped another spoonful of jam onto the top crêpe in his hand, then rolled it up and bit off one end.  The jam instantly began squishing out, so he had to hurry to lick off the gobs before they fell on his shirt.</p>
<p>“…don’t know if I can ever honestly expect you to think.”  At least, that was what Gawain’s expression said.  His actual words sounded like they were along the same lines, but they were mostly drowned out by the water splashing as he rinsed up the dishes.</p>
<p>The window slid open.  By this time, Galahad had gotten used to Tristan showing up everywhere <i>but</i> the front door, so he didn’t jump.  Not really.  Rattling his foot against the table leg didn’t count because nothing fell off.</p>
<p>“Galahad.”  Tristan nodded as he ambled into the kitchenette.  For once, he wasn’t picking small leaves, feathers, or fur tufts from his hair.</p>
<p>“Tristan,” Galahad warily replied.</p>
<p>“Crêpe?”  Gawain proffered his loaded plate of them.  After a moment, Tristan took a couple and began dressing them up with powdered sugar and raspberry jam.  Even he couldn’t avoid getting stuff on his hands, which consequently meant that he had to lick them clean and that Gawain started to get a glazed look.</p>
<p>Galahad decided that he was going back to bed; no point in staying up to watch the idiots act mushy.  He finished off the last of his food and pushed back from the table.  “Just don’t get arrested, okay?  I just dropped off the rent check yesterday, so we can’t afford to make bail.”</p>
<p>Rolling his eyes, Gawain hooked his fingers through Tristan’s belt-loops and pulled him forward.  Definitely time to go.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>7:30 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>As hard as Galahad tried, he couldn’t stuff his pillow into his ears.  Which meant he couldn’t ignore whoever the hell was knocking on the door.</p>
<p>It couldn’t be Gawain.  Even if he’d forgotten his key—which would be one of the surest signs of the end of the world—either he or Tristan could’ve picked the lock.  Anyway, Gawain would’ve yelled.  He knew Galahad ignored knocking for as long as possible unless a date was supposed to show up.</p>
<p>And ‘as long as possible’ rapidly approached.  Fed up, Galahad threw himself into a roll off the bed and stalked down the hallway.  “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m…”</p>
<p>He opened the door.  Mariette did a little mouse-jump and instantly retreated across the hall.</p>
<p>“…really regretting that I came,” Galahad finished.  He looked down at himself, then back at her gaping face.  Okay, so he’d taken off his shirt because it was nearly full-on summer and their air-conditioning blew worse than a virgin.  Big deal.  Where the hell had her parents raised her, a convent?  “What?”</p>
<p>“I was hoping to catch Gawain.”  It didn’t take her long to decide he was scum so bare chest didn’t matter.  By the time she’d finished her sentence, she’d crept back up and was trying to peer around him into the apartment.</p>
<p>Galahad sighed and swung the door wide open so she could get her eyeful.  “He’s out with Tristan.  I don’t know if either of them remembered their cell phone…then again, it’s them.  Don’t think they’d be able to hear the ring anyway.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”  Her cheeks pinked and she ducked her head in a way that would’ve been adorable if she hadn’t followed it up with a fierce glare.  She muttered something in French, then turned so quickly that the swing of her hair nearly razored Galahad’s nose.</p>
<p>Thank God, she was going.  He swallowed down his irritation and started to close the door.</p>
<p>Which he needed to do faster next time, because she’d blocked it with her foot.  And unfortunately, Gawain had succeeded in drumming enough manners into Galahad that he couldn’t bring himself to kick out her toes and slam the door.  He opened it again and leaned against the doorframe.  “Now what?”</p>
<p>Apparently, the attitude for today was the Nancy Sinatra variation on arrogant bitch.  Mariette stood poised on her heeled boots and looked Galahad up and down.  She shrugged and resettled her shoulders so her breasts stuck out more.  “You’ll do.  Put on a shirt and come help me.”</p>
<p>“Right.”  Exactly how shallow did she think he was?  Yeah, Galahad was stepping back into the apartment, but that was only because his bed happened to be in that direction.</p>
<p>Too bad he was also trailing a persistent French girl.</p>
<p>“My car’s broken!” Mariette whined, clattering after him.  She was really dressed too nice for the neighborhood.  “You’re the only people I know who live anywhere nearby.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m the only <i>person</i>.  Gawain’s out, remember?  And I want to go back to bed, but if you insist, I can lend you the phonebook.  Call up a towing service.”  Two more steps and he’d be there.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, Mariette was pretty fast on those cloppy boots of hers.  She zipped in front of him and heroically blocked the doorway with her elbows.  Galahad rocked back on his heels and just looked at her.</p>
<p>After a second, she lost the heroic stance and went to pugnacious, which suited her better.  “Please?”</p>
<p>“Jesus, you make it sound like I’m strangling it out of you.  And what the hell are you doing driving around here?  I thought you had the day off, and you live way out of the way.”  It was beginning to look like Galahad wasn’t going to have a choice, short of tossing her down the fire escape, and the alley behind the building wasn’t really ideal for body-disposal.  Every time he went out there, some girls living in the next building started catcalling him.  Which wouldn’t be too bad if they weren’t grossly underage.  He had <i>some</i> standards.</p>
<p>He was also feeling lazy, hence the desire for more sleep, and consequently he couldn’t muster the energy to keep on disagreeing.  She probably had just run too low on oil, or something stupid like that.  So he could trot down, fix it and then get at least another hour’s sleep.</p>
<p>Mariette looked sullen.  “I wanted to get ahead on my research, so I was in the g-brary.”</p>
<p>Obviously she was lying, but Galahad didn’t really care whatever the hell her pride was so defensive over.  He nodded and waved for her to move aside.  When she didn’t, he rolled his eyes.  “You did want me to put on a shirt, right?  They’re all in there.”</p>
<p>“Oh.  Yes.  Ah…”  Blushing, she stepped out of the way.</p>
<p>“How about ‘thank you’?” Galahad suggested.  He wasn’t surprised when she pretended not to hear him.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>9:30 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>For the second time in the hour, Galahad had to just stand back and go drop-jawed.  “Christ.  You really got yourself a piece of work.”</p>
<p>The last straw had broken the junkmobile’s wreck on a side road, so Mariette apparently had been able to coast it into an empty lot before it’d totally given out on her.  Now she was sitting on a broken concrete post, rubbing at her bare feet while alternating her glare between her shoes and Galahad.  Her eyes were slitty little insults.  “You said that already.”</p>
<p>“No, I said I hadn’t seen a piece of shit this bad since my month in a junkyard.”  Frankly, he was impressed she’d managed to keep it going as long as she had.  It might be salvageable.  With a lot of grease-work, some parts-swapping, and a little bit of slightly-illegal fiddling.  And with Galahad suddenly deciding it’d be worth his while to blow that much time on a girl who regularly threw heavy books at him.</p>
<p>“You worked in one?” Mariette asked, shading her eyes against the sun.</p>
<p>Galahad shook his head as he plunged back into the mess of an engine.  He was beginning to think it’d be easier for her to just buy a new one; her clothes said she could probably afford it.  “No, lived in one.”</p>
<p>She got a confused look, but not an airheaded one.  More like she was getting it, but she just couldn’t believe it.  “Your…family ran one?”</p>
<p>“No,” Galahad sighed.  Her attitude was nominally less offensive than that of most people’s, but it was still irritating to have to spell it all out.  He wrenched at a belt to make himself feel better.  “I lived in one.  Parental neglect, homeless kid, the evil side of capitalism and all that.  Broken-down cars were better than boxes—at least you can lock them from the inside.”</p>
<p>Hopefully, that would shut her up.  Usually the blunt approach made people very uncomfortable and so they changed the subject.</p>
<p>For a couple minutes, it seemed like it had worked, but then Mariette piped up again.  “So how’d you…you said it was only for a month.”</p>
<p>“Why the hell do you care?  I thought you wanted me to fix your car, not to analyze me.”  A poke at something squishy got smoke billowing into Galahad’s face; he stumbled backward, frantically waving.</p>
<p>“You’re the one that brought the subject up.  I’m just curious.”  She snorted.  “And I don’t think you can fix my car.  Can you?”</p>
<p>Galahad looked at her and started to snap something nasty, then said to hell with it.  He was already out, he was too awake to go back to sleep any time soon, so his day of rest was pretty much a lost cause.  “Not here I can’t.  I’d at least have to get it to the garage of this friend of mine.  Actually, it’d probably be better if you just bought a new one.”</p>
<p>“I can’t—” Mariette started to say, but she was cut off by the ring of Galahad’s cell.</p>
<p>He flipped it out.  “Yeah?”</p>
<p>*It’s Gawain.*</p>
<p>Mariette heaved her shoulders and stared disconsolately at her car.  The light and shade played over her face, softening the tense lines of it, and for a moment, Galahad felt sorry for her.  “Yeah?  Aren’t you supposed to be banging Tristan up by the elephant pen now?”</p>
<p>*Don’t make me kill you in your sleep, you goddamn brat.  Listen, he had to go see Arthur first, and that’s why we’re late to the zoo.  And that’s why I remembered something—I forgot to mail the cable bill.  It’s on the counter by the newspaper.  Mail it or there’s no cable, and that means no porn.*</p>
<p>“You make it sound like I never got through puberty,” Galahad muttered.  In front of him, Mariette was swinging between pink cheeks and silent laughter.</p>
<p>*That’s because the jury’s still out on that.  <i>Don’t forget</i>.*  Then Gawain hung up.  Or rather, he hurriedly snapped shut his phone on a beginnings of a groan.</p>
<p>Galahad made a face as he dialed another number.  Hopefully, Bed wouldn’t be too stoned.  It was still pretty early for that—of course it was early.  Any ordinary college student would’ve still been snoring at this hour.  “Jesus.  And he says I’m oversexed.”</p>
<p>Traces of her grin were still on Mariette’s face as she glanced quizzically up at him.  “Who are you calling now?”</p>
<p>“I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to bug a friend of mine who has a garage.  He’s this pothead artist—runs a car repair business and makes sculpture out of the scrap.  Maybe he and I will be able to do something, but that’ll mean your car will be in there for a couple weeks, at least.”  He shuffled from foot to foot as the phone rang and rang, then figured he might as well sit since he wasn’t going anywhere.  It wouldn’t be a good idea to leave Bed to introduce himself to Mariette, and Professor Cobham already tended to give Galahad the evil eye.  “Are you sure you don’t want to just scrap the thing and buy yourself a decent ride?”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” Mariette sniffed.  Her raised eyebrow dared him to ask while she scooted away from him.</p>
<p>Instead Galahad merely leveled his best exasperated face, copied off of Gawain’s, at her.  On the other end of the line, an answering machine clicked on; he ended the call so he could snap at her, figuring he’d just call back.  “For fuck’s sake, we’re legal to drink.  So can we stop with the cooties crap?”</p>
<p>“Certainly.  When you start wiping your mouth after breakfast.”</p>
<p>Oh, for…it was a <i>speck</i>.  When Galahad rubbed it off, he could barely see it on his fingertip.  “Well, I can see we’re going for the silent waiting routine.  Fine.”</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>10:45 A. M</i>
</p>
<p>There was a grassy patch right by the curb that was miraculously free of cigarette butts, used syringes and the other litter of the neighborhood.  Not being one to suffer on ass-bruising concrete when better alternatives were available, Galahad had quickly switched over to it.  Mariette had taken a little longer to do it, but in the end, she wasn’t martyr material either.  As the time wore on and the sun rose hotter in the sky, her iciness began to melt.</p>
<p>“It figures that any friend of yours wouldn’t know the meaning of punctuality.”  She flopped back with her arms over her head.</p>
<p>Relatively speaking, of course.  But Galahad was getting pretty annoyed himself.  Any longer and he’d just start shoving the damn thing.  Bed’s place was pretty far but doable, and if he made Mariette get her precious white hands a little dirty, they’d manage it in time for lunch.  “Fuck off.”</p>
<p>“I can’t.  My car’s here.”  She huffed her irritation.  Her fingers were picking at the grass so their movements transmitted themselves down her arms to create a gentle bobbing of her breasts.  The rest of her looked pretty pin-up as well in those capris.</p>
<p>Too bad she had such a sour personality, Galahad thought.  “Why can’t you sell it?  You know that Bed and I can’t do this for free, right?  And granted, it won’t be state-of-the-art prices, but it’s still not going to be cheap.”</p>
<p>For a moment, she watched him.  Then she shrugged and turned over on her belly so she could fiddle with dandelions.  “Yes, I know, but that car isn’t mine.  It belongs to a New York friend of my parents who gave it to me.”</p>
<p>“Not Arthur, right?  That isn’t why he walks everywhere, is it?” Galahad slyly asked.</p>
<p>Much to his surprise, she seemed to appreciate the joke.  Mariette shook her head, but she was grinning a little.  “No.  No, he’s just odd.  He did that when he worked at the Sorbonne.  This friend that lent the car retired a few years ago and moved to Rochester.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re going to be living Arthur’s routine for a while.  That is not a quick job in there.”  Galahad hooked his thumb at the open hood, which had finally stopped spitting out tongues of smoke.  Then he turned over and tried calling Bed again.</p>
<p>Thankfully, Bed answered.  Even better, he answered sounding much more coherent than the last minute and promised to be there within fifteen minutes.  Something about getting the girls out of the place, something else about mushrooms, and then he hung up.</p>
<p>After he’d put away his cell, Galahad twisted around and was about to give Mariette the good news when he noticed her thoughtful expression.  “What?”</p>
<p>“I’m still curious,” she said.  Her fingertips were starting to stain yellow and green from the dandelions she was picking apart.  Their wilted remains were scattered all about in front of her.  “How did you stop living in a junkyard?”</p>
<p>“That’s a shitty reason for me to tell you.”  Galahad said to hell with telling her anything.  She could just sit and wait for Bed to show up.</p>
<p>Or she could poke at his arm until he growled and faced her again.  Mariette had the usual stiff chin, but she actually looked a little hesitant around the eyes.  “I’m not asking to make fun of you.”</p>
<p>“No, you’re asking because it’s so different and exotic.  It’s not like your nice life at all.”  He snatched her latest dandelion victim from her and flicked it across the lot.  “And stop that.”</p>
<p>“Hey!  You—oh, you petty jackass.”  She sulked, narrowing her eyes at him.  “You just don’t like it because they look like your head.  See?”  Another dandelion, fluffy with its tufty white seeds, was promptly shoved before him.  Though he tried to fend her off, Mariette managed to pat his hair.  Then she nicked off the dandelion head with a smile that was disturbingly close to drunken Tristan.</p>
<p>Galahad sourly batted away the decapitated bits.  “They do <i>not</i>.”</p>
<p>Goddamn it.  Why was Bed taking so long?</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>11:15 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>“You were a whiny child, weren’t you?” Galahad asked.  He sat up and began thinking about how to push the car and what was the quickest way to exhaust Mariette.  At least then she wouldn’t have the energy.</p>
<p>“It’s just a question.”  She sat up as well and started finger-combing the grasses out of her hair.  “What?  Are you ashamed of it?”</p>
<p>Seriously, he was going to strangle Bed.  Then he was going to drop off the cable bill so he could spend the rest of the day killing his brain cells with bad porn movies; if intelligence led to somebody like Mariette, maybe stupidity was better.  “No.  I just don’t want to talk—all right, you know what?  Fine!  Fine.  You want to know?  My fucking mother ran off and left me in an apartment with two months’ rent overdue.  I didn’t feel like doing a foster home so I spent a month or so sleeping in cars till Gawain tracked me down.  He punched me, told me I was an idiot and dragged me back to his place so his grandma could smack me upside the head, say the same thing and then start stuffing me with food.  There.  Your goddamn curiosity satisfied now?”</p>
<p>That shut her up.  She pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wide and thinking, and laid back down in perfect silence.</p>
<p>Too bad Galahad was too riled to really enjoy it.  He counted to fifteen before he could uncurl his hands, and even then he was suddenly too restless to stay put.  Fucking Bed—</p>
<p>--his phone rang.  Bed, to speak of the devil, and he swore to God and ganja that he was indeed on his way.  Right this moment—couldn’t Galahad hear the trunk rumbling?—and sorry, man, but those curvy chicks just would not skedaddle out of the bedroom and he wasn’t going to leave them where he kept his stash and valuables.  He didn’t know them; he’d just slept with them.</p>
<p>“Whatever, fine.  See you in a few,” Galahad sighed, clicking off his cell.  He paced a bit, then settled for leaning against the side of the car.  “He’s coming.  Finally.”</p>
<p>Mariette pulled herself up again and wrapped her arms around her knees.  “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, I don’t really expect much better from you.  Kind of obvious you hate me.”  Next time, Galahad was just going to keep the chain on the door, speak through the crack, and forward any requests to Gawain.  Let him be the one with the spoiled day.  Tristan would just be sneaking in to make his night all loud and bed-rattling and better anyway.</p>
<p>Okay.  Galahad definitely needed to line up some dates.  He had had to cut back during the frenzy of finals grading, and it was beginning to show.</p>
<p>“I don’t <i>hate</i> you,” Mariette carefully said.  Then she tilted her head and thought about it.  “I don’t know you.  I do dislike you, but I don’t know you enough to hate you.  I don’t really know anyone here.”</p>
<p>That last comment came out sounding melancholy and she knew it too; as soon as she’d finished, she ducked her head and snapped on a mulish face.  If Galahad showed any sign of pity, he’d get a serious bitching.</p>
<p>Good thing he wasn’t inclined to pity, though he understood.  “You know, you could start by not treating me like a case study.  I’m not a book.  I talk back.”</p>
<p>“I noticed.  And I am sorry—sorry about asking, I mean.  Not about—I mean, I am sorry you had to, but not in the way—oh, English can be so frustrating!”  Mariette emphasized with a wild snatching at the ground that saw quite a few dandelions soaring through the air.</p>
<p>Galahad eyed a couple that had fallen on the concrete.  “If it helps, most of my fellow Americans don’t get it right, either.”  Pause.  “Those do <i>not</i> look like my hair.”</p>
<p>“They do when you don’t comb it,” she fired back.</p>
<p>After a second, Galahad shrugged and snickered.  Okay, that was a good crack.  And she could be pretty entertaining sometimes, though it still didn’t break even with her bitchy side.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>12:30 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Bed leaned to look around Galahad and let out a low wolf-whistle, then dove back beneath the car hood.  He was cackling the way only a man that had gotten laid by twins the night before could.  “Damn, man.  You’re getting yourself a nice set-up there.  Fucking nitro.”</p>
<p>Galahad sneaked a glance at where Bed had been looking, but only saw Mariette frowning at a rack of greasy wrenches.  “What?”</p>
<p>Then he got it.</p>
<p>“Are you shitting me?  She’s French.  And she doesn’t shut up, and she’s got a mouth like that schoolteacher you always wanted to see get hit by the bus,” he muttered.  Clearly the weed was still working its way through Bed’s system.</p>
<p>“French, in need of instruction, and built.  Don’t see where I’m shitting wrong,” cracked the dreads.  They bobbled and flapped about as Bed made his assessment of the engine.</p>
<p>Rolling his eyes, Galahad slapped the man on the shoulder.  “Be right back.”  He walked over to Mariette and nodded towards the door.  “Okay, we’ve got it from here.  There’s a bus stop around the corner, so you can probably go now.”</p>
<p>“Or I’ll get mauled by Mr. Marley there?”  She smiled sweetly and pointed her chin at Bed, who was obliviously beginning to croon a pornographic Spanish song.  “You actually have a good idea there.”</p>
<p>Figures.  “Well, that’s my quota of selflessness for the next month.”</p>
<p>But when Galahad turned to go back, she grabbed his arm.  At first he thought she was choking, but then Mariette got whatever was wrong with her throat sorted out.  She drew herself up very stiffly.  “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome,” Galahad absently said.  He was too shocked to be rude.</p>
<p>Mariette let go of his arm and stared at their feet.  “So…I’ll drop round once a week to see how it’s going?  Since I want a car back and not a tank.”</p>
<p>Now that was more like her.  Galahad snorted and grandiosely waved her towards the exit.  “Sure, yeah, whatever as long as you’re paying.  God forbid you actually <i>trust</i> me.”</p>
<p>She laughed at him before turning on those heels of hers and swaying out of the garage.  That was a beautiful ass.</p>
<p>And yes, definitely time to get back on the dating scene.  It was a bad sign when Mariette started looking good to him.</p>
<p>“I’m telling you, you got it made,” crowed Bed.  “Got a regular date now to fall back on.”</p>
<p>“She’d probably push me right over the cliff if I tried that.  Move over and let me see again…okay, see that?  I think we can jerry-rig it if we get…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Due Diligence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>12:55 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>It was an ordinary phone.  Plastic, black, vaguely stodgy in style since the place was run by law enforcement.  It probably didn’t deserve the glare that Guinevere was directing at it.</p>
<p>God, that prick.</p>
<p>Though she did wonder what on earth had gotten into Lancelot; it wasn’t like him to be introspective.  Vain, yes, but he tended not to look any deeper than whatever was most likely to get him and Arthur horizontally-oriented in the next five minutes.  Maybe he and Arthur had had an argument, and for once he’d decided to consider the possibility that he happened to be the one at fault, or that he at least shared some of it.</p>
<p>Actually, that was most likely it.  Lancelot had limited mobility and was stuck at home with his favorite target after Guinevere—she was beginning to think ‘obsession’ might be a better word for his interest in Arthur—and it didn’t take him long to lose his patience under the best of conditions.  Plus he never could keep his fretting to himself, but insisted on inflicting it on whoever was nearest, and polite Arthur would let him get out of hand instead of nipping things in the bud.  Though from the sounds of things, they seemed to have reconciled…</p>
<p>Still, she’d call back in another fifteen minutes just to make sure.  For all the show of integrity that Arthur put up, he had more than his share of underhanded reflexes.  And if Guinevere was coming home to a sulking brat and a stonewalling epitome of maddening consideration, she wanted to know.</p>
<p>She propped her arm on the desk and rubbed at her temple.  “I sound like I’m married with a teenager.”</p>
<p>Which was slightly unfair to Lancelot, but at the moment, Guinevere didn’t feel like being fair.  The damned man would get himself sick leave, resulting in loads of unorganized reports landing on Guinevere’s desk, and then not even enjoy it.  Sometimes he could be nearly as masochistic as Arthur, what with the way he just couldn’t keep from prodding the man.  If he’d had any sense, he would’ve done his own quiet research and then tugged out Arthur’s version while Arthur was distracted with, say, copies of certain rare philosophical texts that were in private collections and therefore not routinely accessible to scholars.  It took longer, but it meant less drama.  And Guinevere disliked drama.</p>
<p>But when all was said and done, she supposed there was something to having distractions.  Steady work was <i>so</i> tedious.</p>
<p>She sighed and picked up another forensic analysis.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>1:30 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Two-thirds of everything done, and as she had her second meeting in a quarter-hour, it didn’t make sense to start on another file.  After checking that the door-shade was down, Guinevere kicked off her heels, lounged in her non-standard leather swivel chair, and picked up the phone.</p>
<p>Arthur answered on the first ring.  *Hello?*</p>
<p>“Where is he?”  In retrospect, that was a bit abrupt of her.  Apparently earlier had bothered her more than she’d realized.</p>
<p>*Sleeping on me,* Arthur replied, sounding both bemused and a little worried.  From the few wary chats Guinevere had had with his secretary, she had the impression that he didn’t usually sound like that, but that tone was standard for her or Lancelot.  *He decided I needed an at-shoulder critic of my writing style, then got tired of it.  I didn’t move fast enough.*</p>
<p>Oh, he’d moved quite fast enough, Guinevere suspected.  It took a good deal to wear out Lancelot, and the mere act of criticizing wasn’t one of them.  Though it was taking him a while, Arthur was starting to get the hang of handling Lancelot.  “So whatever happened earlier…”</p>
<p>Only Arthur could make an embarrassed stutter sexy enough for Guinevere to uncomfortably cross her legs.  *Yes, well, I think we’ve come to an understanding regarding that.  By the way, the…ah…I wiped down the kitchen tiles.  They should be dry by the time you get home, but watch your step in case.*</p>
<p>“And what was ‘that’?”  On Guinevere’s computer, a new-email bubble popped up.  She put out a finger and clicked open her desktop mailbox, only to see it was another annoying reminder from Isolde about the annual July 4th picnic.  “Do you need me to borrow any files?”</p>
<p>*What?  Oh, no.  No, I…you’re being very reasonable about this.  You’re always very reasonable.*  Strangely enough, Arthur didn’t sound approving of that.  He didn’t sound ungrateful either, but rather…contemplative.</p>
<p>Guinevere deleted Isolde’s email and, on a whim, started to compose a nasty one to Lancelot.  He wouldn’t check his inbox till late morning tomorrow, but that was perfect timing anyway.  She’d be out in Brooklyn doing interviews and thus out of touch by then.  “Thank you.  I think.  Are you sure?”</p>
<p>Arthur didn’t immediately answer, and when he finally spoke again, he prepped himself by taking a deep breath.  In the background, Lancelot made a sleepy protest-noise, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice.  *Old friend came to visit.  I talked to her, agreed to an exchange of favors, and hopefully she’ll not be back again.  When you get home, I’ll tell you more about it.*</p>
<p>Frowning, Guinevere sat straight up.  “You’re in a confessional mood.  Did you only just talk?”</p>
<p>*Yes.  But…it’s a bit funny how my mouth seems to shut down around you or Lancelot.  And unfair.*  </p>
<p>Guilt-tripping himself, plain as anything in his voice.  Less worried now, Guinevere leaned back.  “It’s not even been four months, and that’s to six years or more of silence.  I told you before and I’m telling you again, I’m willing to be patient.  So don’t take offense at yourself on my account.”</p>
<p>*It’s hard not to when I realize that I’d never tell about anything if I wasn’t pushed to it,* Arthur snapped.</p>
<p>He startled Guinevere; she accidentally smacked her finger down on the mouse.  Then she spent the next two seconds panicking before she realized she’d just trashcan’ed her email draft.</p>
<p>Even Arthur seemed surprised at himself.  *I’m sorry.  That didn’t come out like I wanted it to.  What I meant was—I—well--*</p>
<p>“No, it’s fine,” Guinevere interrupted.  Or she tried to interrupt, for she suddenly had an impending feeling of doom.  And given how well-honed her instincts were after cohabiting with Lancelot for a few years, she knew better to disregard those.  “Honestly, I want to ask a lot, but I’m never sure how far to push with you, so it seems more prudent to—”</p>
<p>*--I love you,* Arthur finished.</p>
<p>They breathed into opposite ends of the line for several seconds.</p>
<p>Arthur coughed.  *Over the phone isn’t really the appropriate way to tell you, is it?  I meant to wait till you’d gotten off work, but…*</p>
<p>Guinevere stared at the far frosted-glass wall and wondered what the <i>hell</i> Lancelot had been doing.</p>
<p>*…anyway, I do.  And at the very least, that puts you at risks that I should be telling you about if I love you, and damn it, this is circular reasoning.  Guinevere?  Are you still there?*</p>
<p>Very faintly, she heard Lancelot mumble that Arthur just needed to wait a moment, wait till she remembered she was a cold hard bitch and then her mind would get back to him.  Then she heard Arthur deliver a retort that started out scathing and ended basically as an endearment.  Followed by scuffling noises.</p>
<p>*Sorry about the interruption,* Arthur said, a bit breathless.  *I think he’ll be quiet now.*</p>
<p>Well, Lancelot was good for something.  His sarcasm never failed to jolt her brain into gear.  “Arthur?  Did you shove him aside or down?”</p>
<p>*Down.  Why?  Is it about his ankaaaah—oh.  No.  I see—not now oh God—your point.  Lancelot, don’t <i>do</i> thaaaah.  Christ.*  The rest of Arthur’s words degenerated into squeaking.</p>
<p>The clock called.  And thankfully, Guinevere burst into a flurry of decisive motion: shutting down her computer, collecting her notes, checking that her make-up was still spotless.  “Arthur, I’ve got a meeting and you’re…busy.”</p>
<p>*I’ll call back at four then?*  Gasping as he was, Arthur still spoke firmly enough for Guinevere to understand he wanted to talk it out.</p>
<p>Great.  Wonderful.  And Guinevere still couldn’t figure out what was supposed to be on the blankness that was her initial reaction.  “All right,” she said as normally as she could manage.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>3:45 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>That goddamned phone had the smuggest gleam Guinevere had ever seen.  It even beat Lancelot’s smirk for sheer about-to-screw-you-over-and-you-can’t-do-a-thing jackass attitude.</p>
<p>Quarter till.  The meeting had been mostly routine housekeeping, so Guinevere had been able to paste an attentive expression on her face and spend the entire time thinking about what Arthur’s motives were and what he expected, and then what she was going to do about it.  She was vaguely aware that this wasn’t the correct reaction, but she didn’t care too much.  That could be an issue once she’d just figured out what the hell was going on.</p>
<p>People like Arthur just did not go around declaring their love.  Not personal love, anyway—Guinevere could and had seen him declaiming his adoration for various impersonal things ranging from Pelagian heresy to the Met’s recent exhibition on the armored horse in medieval Europe to certain liberal political movements.  But that was very different.  Those loves were cerebral, for one thing.  While they still could hurt Arthur, they were an attack on his ideas and he could always fight back with reason.  Whereas saying it to another person opened up a whole new can of worms.</p>
<p>“Goddamn it, couldn’t you have waited till I got home?”  Guinevere dropped her head into her hands and raked her hair back from her forehead, hard.  </p>
<p>What was she supposed to do?  Say it back to him?  Was it another intellectual issue—did he feel like he needed to say it?  As if it were a requirement?  Was it some stupid version of a pissing contest that Lancelot had provoked him into taking up?</p>
<p>Was he saying it because he really did mean it, and she was merely over-analyzing it?</p>
<p>It wouldn’t have been any easier to react to if she had been home, probably, but at least then she would have had a visual cue.  And she could corner Lancelot and find out what hand he’d had in this new…new…</p>
<p>She wanted to call it a mess, kept hearing ‘twist’ in her head, and deep down, the word ‘joy’ insisted on curling around her gut and making it warm.  Which in turn made Guinevere want to wrap her arms around herself and…do something stupid like wriggle in place.</p>
<p>Guinevere knotted her fingers in her hair again and stared at the phone.  Only Arthur could send her this off-kilter and still make her wish he was right there so she could…</p>
<p>…do something to ignore the fact that she was terrified, and not quite sure why.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>3:50 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>The knock at the door nearly startled Guinevere off her chair.  She caught herself on the edge of her desk with a gasp and righted herself just as Pellew walked in.  He paused, then did the sensible thing and pretended along with her that nothing was out of the ordinary.</p>
<p>“Sorry to drop this on you this late, but they just came in and I won’t be around for the rest of the afternoon.”  He produced a thin folder which, when opened, held a set of crime-scene photos.  “They’re for the Luzhin case that Lancelot’s handling.  I trust you can pass them along and…see that he has something to keep him busy during his enforced exile?”</p>
<p>They both hid grins from each other; Guinevere appreciated Pellew’s dry sense of humor and though he never missed an opportunity to scold them, he knew when to give his agents a free rein.  She took the folder and tucked it into her briefcase.  “Certainly.  I’ve on good authority that he’s terribly in need to something to do.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure.”  Pellew about-faced as if he was still in the Navy, then thought of something and turned back.  But now he was pulling his chin into his chest and looking uncomfortable, which only happened around a specific set of subjects.  “And how is he?  Recovering well?  Not too much of a burden on the…ah…household?”</p>
<p>It was an open secret around the office that Lancelot and Guinevere were involved in some sordid threesome.  Long before Arthur had come along, people were already used to the idea of the two of them being wildly unorthodox--and being ready to rip into anyone that called them on it.  Anyway, Pellew only kept on efficient agents.  And efficient agents didn’t have much time to bother themselves about personal lives as long as it didn’t infringe on their territory.  But there were a few sticklers for traditional morality floating about—who made good scratching posts for whenever Guinevere needed to work off some frustration.  Pellew wasn’t exactly one of them, but he had a strict sense of what was appropriate office-talk, and sexual relations wasn’t included unless it bore directly on a case’s outcome.  Shame for him that some small talk was necessary to maintain good superior-subordinate relations.</p>
<p>“He’s actually getting along quite well.  Arthur’s researching at home for the day, so Lancelot doesn’t lack for attention.  Not that he ever lets himself be,” Guinevere answered, enjoying herself.  It wasn’t often that she got to see Pellew embarrassed.</p>
<p>“Yes.  Arthur is exceptionally considerate.  I still think it’s a pity we couldn’t get him to take a more active interest in our branch.”  The way Pellew said that momentarily pricked at Guinevere, for he almost seemed to be winking at her.  As if he knew about the occasional help Arthur offered on the sly.  “Give him my regards, would you?”</p>
<p>Guinevere noted her suspicion and filed it away for further contemplation.  “Of course.”</p>
<p>Once again Pellew started to go, and this time he got all the way to the door before pausing.  “You know, I was beginning to worry about you,” he thoughtfully said.  “I don’t mean to cast any aspersions on your abilities, because I trust in them implicitly, but I did wonder if you were ever going to let yourself have your due.  Lancelot alone isn’t healthy for either of you.  Arthur’s a good man, and well-suited to you.”</p>
<p>He shut the door before she could comment, so all a shocked Guinevere could do was fall back in her chair and think absently that it was a damned good thing the glass walls were thickly frosted so no one could see her gaping mouth.  Damn it, but Pellew would act stuffy till everyone expected nothing else and then turn around to deliver something like <i>that</i>.</p>
<p>She let her hands hang limply over the chair arms and gazed aimlessly around the room, wondering since when she’d become so transparent.  She was happy.  Very much so.  And very determined to hang onto it, so spreading the news seemed to be a surefire way of inviting disaster.</p>
<p>Guinevere caught sight of the clock, then thumped her head against the back of her chair and moaned a little.  Five minutes till four.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>4:05 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>The phone wasn’t ringing.  Guinevere had abandoned all thought of getting the last few reports processed—which she knew was going to bite her in the arse, and didn’t that improve her mood—and now had her head down on her desk, glaring at the goddamned phone.  Which wasn’t ringing.  When it was five minutes past the hour, and Arthur was meticulously punctual.  Maybe that damned curly-headed idiot had—</p>
<p>--“Apologies for the lateness,” Arthur said, sticking his head around the door.</p>
<p>He got to see Guinevere twitch right off her chair.  This time, she didn’t quite manage to save herself.</p>
<p>“And sorry for not knocking or sending prior notice.”  Arthur gave her a hand up, then stood back.  He looked nervous beneath that thick layer of manners.  “I had to step out and mail something, and then I thought I might pick you up for an early dinner while I was out.  It’s spur of the moment, but…”</p>
<p><i>Very</i> much so.  But once Guinevere got over her shock, and then her humiliation at flopping over like that, she thought it was an excellent idea.  It was clear she wasn’t going to get any more work done in the office, and if Arthur was that determined to have a discussion…best do it on neutral ground.  “Lancelot?”</p>
<p>“Sleeping again.  He said he’d had his fill and so he was skipping dinner.”  Exasperation faintly touched Arthur’s flustered face.  “Occasionally I wish he wasn’t so quick to recover.”</p>
<p>“I think everyone does who spends more than five minutes with him.  Let me just get my purse and close up shop here…”</p>
<p>They were speaking so very casually, so easily, and all the while Guinevere could hear the tension humming between them.  But it seemed as if Arthur had similar plans, so neither of them broke the ice till they were safely ensconced in an isolated nook in a nearby Caribbean-themed café.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Arthur told the waiter as he handed over their menus.  Then he turned to Guinevere.  The lines of his face and the set of his shoulders subtly changed, becoming less unassuming, and his voice turned crisp, matter-of-fact.  Though that still didn’t hide the fact that he was very uncertain of himself.  “One of my old colleagues was in town, briefly.  Sofia Romanovna Petrovich.  You should have heard of her.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t I.”  Well, well, that could have interesting implications.  One of the few women to make it as an equal in the Russian mafia, Sofia had started as a mistress and fuck-killed her way up the food chain.  And there’d always been rumors that she had really been a KGB plant—which Arthur’s knowing her probably confirmed.  “All right.  So what needs to be done?”</p>
<p>Arthur shrugged.  “Nothing.”  He had to pause because the waiter was back with their drinks, but fortunately, their server wasn’t a lingering sort.  “Tristan gave me a heads-up and I had a short talk with her, at the end of which I agreed to share some information on a mutual enemy and she agreed to blank out my name from some Russian intelligence files.  She’s probably flying over an ocean by now.”</p>
<p>Guinevere fiddled with her straw.  That squelching feeling of imminent danger was starting up again.  “If it’s already handled, then why bring it up?”</p>
<p>“Because she knows where I live and she saw Lancelot, and she’s too smart not to find out about you.  It could be a worry—it is a worry, because I love you, and I thought you needed to know.”  He said it in a rush, hands pressed against the table as if he was trying to keep from doing something.  Grabbing her, maybe.  Or strangling an unseen presence.  His eyes were brilliant and entirely focused on her.  “Because I hate the feeling that I can’t trust anyone, but I’m not used to telling people things.  Because I love you.”</p>
<p>“You said that twice—no, three times,” Guinevere weakly replied.  She noticed she was jabbing her heels at the floor and made herself stop.  They were cute shoes and had cost a fortune, so she’d better not ruin them.  And she was stalling.</p>
<p>After a moment, Arthur leaned back and took a deep breath.  He squeezed a lemon slice over his water, then sipped at it.  “I’m not pushing you, Guinevere.  But I do want you to know that.”</p>
<p>“Did Lancelot have anything to do with this?”  Yes, make it more familiar, please.  Because if Arthur was uncertain, Guinevere was in bloody freefall.</p>
<p>Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it.  He looked irritated.  “Yes, he did, but I’m not saying this to you merely because I’m trying to even a score.  This isn’t about—whatever you two are really arguing over when you use me as an excuse.”</p>
<p>“We don’t use you as an excuse.  And what did he say?  Was he nagging at you to explain things again?”  Guinevere’s voice was rising and she could hear it, but she couldn’t seem to drag it back down to discreet levels.  It was a good thing the restaurant was still mostly empty.  “Because I told you—”</p>
<p>“I know, and I respect that.  I appreciate it,” Arthur snapped.  He exhaled sharply and stared at his fingers for a few moments, then abruptly withdrew his hands.  His shoulders went down, and when he looked up again, he did so as if it pained him, though his sincerity pained <i>Guinevere</i> with its strength.  “I do.  I understand your position better than you probably realize.”</p>
<p>What position?  “Why do I have the feeling that this isn’t how your talk with Lancelot went?”</p>
<p>“Because Lancelot’s very different from you, and I’m not really sure how much I understand him.”  Their food arrived, which kept Arthur from talking for a few moments.</p>
<p>While Guinevere wished she could say it was a welcome breather, it wasn’t, really.  It did give her space, but she still wasn’t sure what to do with it.  “And you understand me, as you keep saying.”</p>
<p>“Yes…I think.”  Well, it was nice to see Arthur still couldn’t help tacking on qualifiers.  But his gaze wasn’t wavering, and that made Guinevere worry.  He shrugged and picked up a shrimp, then paused to let the excess sauce dip off.  “I…Guinevere, I spent the better part of six years trying not to get attached to people.  There were valid issues about my bringing harm with them, but if I’m honest, I’d say those largely disappeared after I settled here.  After that, it was more about avoiding harm to myself.”</p>
<p>And now she was beginning to see the thrust of his meaning.  She supposed it couldn’t quite be called a confessional mood, for even though Arthur was revealing a good deal more than he ever had previously, he still wasn’t doing it in a straightforward fashion.  Habits died hard.  Jealousy died harder.  “Am I your sounding board?”</p>
<p>Arthur had a shrimp in his mouth so he could only indicate his confusion with eyebrows and eyes.</p>
<p>“I can see where the mild-mannered act must come in handy,” Guinevere muttered.  She was getting increasingly annoyed, and since that was a deviation from the norm, she was analyzing it.  Which in turn annoyed her even more, because at the moment she didn’t need to be picking at herself.  Neuroticism didn’t suit her, and goddamn it, why couldn’t she shut off the dissecting part of her mind?  Right now it was distracting.  “You never talk like this with Lancelot.  You’d get about two sentences in before someone lost their temper, and it’d all end in a great conflagration of mad passion.”</p>
<p>That resulted in a hit, but Arthur managed to remain level.  “Would you want me to act like that with you?”</p>
<p>Guinevere opened her mouth, then closed it once she realized what her tongue was actually going to say.</p>
<p>“All right, I am pushing you,” Arthur said.  His voice finally betrayed frustration, and the stabbing motions he made at his salad betrayed even more.  “But not much—not nearly as much as I find myself wanting to sometimes, and I don’t expect you to push back.  But I’d want you—in the future I’d like—goddamn it.  Guinevere, just because I understand someone doesn’t mean I know how to handle them.  Lancelot acts the way he wants others to act.  I may not know why he wants it, but I’ll know what he wants.  I can’t tell with you.  You let me think nearly anything will go—it’s as much a mild-mannered act as mine is, for all that your tongue is far sharper.”</p>
<p>After that, a silence fell.  Arthur seemed shocked that he’d had it in him, and frankly, Guinevere was as well.  She stared at her food, which she’d barely touched, and suddenly realized that she didn’t have a countering argument.  He was right.  He did understand her.</p>
<p>It made her a bit queasy.  For a moment, she thought about making a run to the bathroom, but that was just too defeatist for her to stomach.  Besides, no matter how much make-up she had in her purse, she’d eventually run out of things to touch up and she’d have to come back out again.</p>
<p>“It’s very difficult for a woman to make a career in law enforcement.  Modern ideas about equality aside, there’s still some things men can get away with that women can’t seem to afford to,” she finally said.  “You end up thinking you’ve got to sacrifice things.”</p>
<p>“And it’s very difficult to realize that you’re thirty-six and all the previous passions of your life were complete illusions.  Were more or less nothing compared to the truth.”  His eyes were bright as stars.  Thankfully, he dropped them to his plate before he completely blinded Guinevere, or caused her to do something like crawl over the table and just…have him.  Apparently his appetite was gone as well, for he merely nibbled at a shrimp before pushing his food from him.  “I <i>was</i> thinking in the car about taking you in the backseat and…” slight flush “…but I spent a few years teaching myself how to think that sort of thing and not show it.  Not an easy lesson to unlearn.”</p>
<p>Guinevere had to laugh.  “I thought Lancelot would have helped with that.”</p>
<p>“He does—but why do you always bring the conversation back to him?”  Arthur signaled for the check.  “I thought you two liked each other beneath all the…ah…”</p>
<p>“Violent foreplay?” she suggested.  Her comment garnered her one of Arthur’s rare but infectious full smiles.  “We do.  Reluctantly.  But he just…I don’t understand how he breezes in and manages to do what he does.  He’s too damn lucky.  He’s…he said it back to you, didn’t he.”</p>
<p>“I’m not turning this into a competition,” Arthur told her.  Firmly, seriously, and yet that wasn’t enough to hide the flash of bliss that went through his eyes.  It really had shaken him, and deep down he adored Lancelot for it.</p>
<p>Her stomach hurt again.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>5:42 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>The problem was she probably did love him, Guinevere decided.  But knowing that and figuring out how to live with it were two different things, and until she knew how to do the second, she was better off keeping her mouth shut.  What she already had was good, and…God, how did Lancelot live the way he did?  Throwing everything out there and without even checking whether it knew how to swim?</p>
<p>She was letting Arthur drive, on his insistence because he hadn’t yet heard whether Sofia had left town.  And, she thought, in the future that would be the only kind of reason she’d let him, because he didn’t own a car and it showed.  Put him in a threatening situation and he was a fantastic driver, but apparently regular NYC traffic didn’t count as such and so at the moment she sympathized with the people that had honked them mercilessly back into their neighborhood.  “Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?”  He seemed to be used to that type of treatment, for he pulled into the garage as coolly as he’d pulled out of the parking lot.</p>
<p>“Do you avoid cars just because you’re a dedicated environmentalist, or because they’re likely assassination locales?”  It was a stupid question, and she’d asked it mostly because she still felt as if she needed to say something.  Though what there was left after their dinner was beyond her.  Between the two of them, they’d reasoned it all out.  Nothing left for reason.</p>
<p>She snapped, much to her surprise.</p>
<p>Arthur turned to her, juggling an answer, and ended up muffling a surprised gasp in her mouth.  She wriggled further onto him till she wasn’t about to slide into the gearshift, holding his face with both hands and kissing him as hard and as deep as she could.  After a second, his hands came up to her shoulders.  They rested there for a second, which was the only second of stillness.  Then they were moving ravenously over her, tracing the shape of her hips, pushing the silk off her breasts, running up beneath her skirt.  And he was lunging back at her, mouth hot and hungry, till he had shaken off her hands to bury his face in between her breasts.  She could feel his tongue reveling around their curves and it made her shaky, breathless.</p>
<p>Guinevere clutched at his head and tried to climb up, push him closer and deeper.  Arched against the wheel, which was digging into her back.  Got a heel caught somewhere and just wrenched her foot out of it so she could claw at his collar and lick along his neck.  His hands went further up her skirt, teasing down hose and pants just as his lips were the edges of her bra.  Then his fingers were in her and skillfully manipulating so her knees weakened, her muscles seemed like unstrung wires.  Her nails left red scores in the skin around his collarbone; she pulled at his tie and collar till she could press her mouth to them.  He ground his thumb-knuckle up against her clit, pressing and rubbing till her mouth was dry with panting, her vision blurry, her flesh melted.  And he kept working her, fucking her with his hand and twisting her body around that tight knot between her legs till the bubble burst and all the filminess spectacularly evaporated.</p>
<p>It left behind two breathless, rumpled people who stared at each other with slightly silly expressions.  “Not quite the backseat,” Guinevere gasped.</p>
<p>“No, that would’ve have more room.”  Arthur slid his fingers out of her and almost prodded at his head—which she’d apparently smacked against the headrest a few times—before he remembered.  He gazed bemusedly at his sticky fingers.  “God.  I don’t think I’ve done it in a car since Oxford.”</p>
<p>“Would you like to move it to the backseat?”  Guinevere writhed about till she could get a hand down.  She raised an eyebrow.  “Slower than usual.”</p>
<p>He started to be embarrassed, then gave in to his sense of humor.  “For God’s sake, I was at home with Lancelot for half the day.  The rest of the week I’m going in to the office so I can actually get something done.”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t exactly a no,” she purred.  And kept her hand down so she could encourage matters.</p>
<p>Arthur flopped back and just looked at her.  His collar was a mess and his cheeks still red from their earlier frenzy, and he was so utterly open to her in that moment that Guinevere almost said something.  But he must have seen it coming, for he wrapped a hand around her neck and drew her down for a kiss.</p>
<p>When they came up for air, Guinevere was fighting the urge to be maudlin.  “Thank you.”  She inhaled sharply, and told herself there’d be time and more chances to meet his push.  “Now heave me into the back.  Someone’s going to make up Lancelot’s phonecall to me, and I wouldn’t want to disturb his little nap—Christ!”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you want that?” Arthur asked, awkwardly clambering after her.  With his eyes glittering like that, he looked much like a naïve young university student.  But he wasn’t, and so it meant that much more.</p>
<p>“With you I always want it,” Guinevere softly told him.  Then she dragged him down before they could <i>talk</i> any more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Borrowed the Russian names from Dostoevsky’s <i>Crime and Punishment</i>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Asking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>9:37 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Gawain wiped at his mouth, then licked the smears off its back.  He rocked onto his heels and grinned at a limp, dazed-looking Tristan.  “Sorry.  But those jeans make your ass look really good.”</p>
<p>Tristan summoned up the urge to raise an ironic eyebrow.  He started picking at his shirt, flapping it back around himself and rebuttoning it, which took much longer than usual because his hands were still shaking.  First time that had ever happened.  “You’re apologizing because you find my ass attractive?”</p>
<p>“No.  I’m just being polite.  Well, that and really, really liking how you look right now.”  The floor seemed to be clean enough, so Gawain wasn’t in any hurry to get up.  He crawled between Tristan’s sprawled legs and casually rested his hands on the other man’s thighs, curling his fingers beneath the rumpled denim.  “We’re going to be late.”</p>
<p>“So we are.”  Shirt buttoned, Tristan dropped his hands as if he were going to do up his fly, but instead just sat there.  And rubbed his thumbs over Gawain’s hands, and leaned his head back against the wall so he was pretty much asking to be made later.  “We could always go to the zoo instead.”</p>
<p>They were in Tristan’s apartment, having just returned from Arthur’s place, and down on the floor because Gawain had either been too busy or too tired to see much of Tristan during finals week.  It was taking a leaf out of Galahad’s book to pounce on someone like that, but Gawain thought it’d be pretty damn good nonetheless.  And he’d had the impression that Tristan had thought the same.</p>
<p>Except that comment had been odd.  Gawain didn’t move away, but he did stop teasing.  “Galahad’s been planning on going downtown as soon as finals were finished.  If I’d said we were going there, he would’ve wanted to come.  But if I say we’re going to the zoo, then he figures it’s just you and he doesn’t ask questions.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like the zoo very much, actually.  Lately they’ve done a better job of making the cages look natural, but they’re still cages.”  Tristan squeezed Gawain’s hands, then pulled them up to his lips.  He gave the knuckles of each a soft press of his mouth before letting go and tugging up his jeans.</p>
<p>“Are you upset?” Gawain asked, surprised.  Concern for Galahad wasn’t a trait Tristan showed…at all, really.  And it seemed equally unlikely that Tristan would be upset just because Gawain had told a little white lie.  Which Gawain didn’t like doing, and which he didn’t do around Tristan.</p>
<p>The other man shook his head, shooting Gawain a strange look.  Then he thought of something and smiled a little.  “No, I was just curious.  But we really shouldn’t be late for this.”</p>
<p>“Probably not.”  Though damn it, Gawain wasn’t nearly satisfied.  He had time to make up, and now Tristan was deliciously rumpled, and fuck, he sounded like Galahad.  Sex hadn’t been the only thing Gawain had missed about Tristan, and this was sounding like a really important thing, and so he could restrain himself.  Ignore his dick.</p>
<p>Still, when he stood up, he did so reluctantly and only just biting back a sigh.  Maybe if he tried superimposing someone else’s ass over Tristan’s…and the first one that presented itself was Arthur’s.  Which was attractive, but at this point, that was also wrong on way, way too many levels.  Gawain hurriedly shook the image out of his head and decided to just walk where he couldn’t see Tristan’s backside.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?”  Tristan eyed Gawain like he would an over-shaken can of soda.</p>
<p>“Yeah!  Yeah, I’m fine.”  Said that too fast.  “Um…so why did we have to stop here?  I kind of lost track after…”</p>
<p>“…you got me up against the wall?”  And that was definite smugness lurking around the edges of Tristan’s expression, which made it hard for Gawain to not grin.  “I needed to pick up a different set of keys.”</p>
<p>They went out onto the stairway, which was too narrow for both of them to walk abreast.  So Gawain slipped ahead and determinedly pretended he didn’t remember the time they had had a quickie against that corner of the stairwell.  “And where in Brooklyn are we going, anyway?”</p>
<p>“To meet some people I know.  They’re…easier to see than to try and describe.”  For some reason, Tristan sounded hesitant.  But when Gawain turned around, the other man looked much as he always did.</p>
<p>Well, with Tristan appearances usually were deceptive.  But pushing him didn’t do any good; in some ways he was like a Chinese finger-trap, where the more force was used, the less give there was.  And anyway, Gawain wasn’t in a mood for pushing.  It couldn’t be too dangerous else Tristan would’ve specifically warned him, so he figured he’d just wait and see.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>10:36 A. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Traffic in NYC wasn’t natural.  Or maybe it was, in the sense that somewhere along the line, it’d developed a separate intelligence and a taste for frustrating people.  Today it was in top form, blocking up the roads with a spectacular jam that had had Tristan and Gawain sitting in place for the past ten minutes.  Usually Tristan’s encyclopedic knowledge of side-streets and alleyways could get them around any bottleneck, but today all his detours had been defeated.</p>
<p>“Damn.  We are going to be late.”  Tristan also wasn’t much for swearing, so that made Gawain take a good look at him.  He was slouched back in the seat, hands draped limply over the wheel and expression apparently unconcerned.  But every so often, he’d twitch his head to get the hair out of his face, and normally he didn’t care about that.</p>
<p>“I’ve got my cell—fuck, I hope Galahad remembered what I told him.  He’s between girlfriends now and annoying as hell.  Don’t really want to think about what he’d be like without his porn-channel.”  Gawain started to dig out his phone, but Tristan motioned for him to stop.  “You sure?”</p>
<p>After a moment, Tristan nodded.  He lifted his hand to press his knuckles to his mouth, thinking, then shook his head at some thought.  “No, it’s fine.  I’d—they aren’t easy to get in touch with by phone.”</p>
<p>“Gang?  Mysterious people from Arthur’s past?”  Though Gawain was joking, he wasn’t doing so without thinking.  At least, that was what he realized a second later, after Tristan had given him a sharp glance.  He shrugged and took off his seatbelt, since it was biting into his throat and it wasn’t like it was doing any good when they weren’t moving.  “You don’t have to answer that.”</p>
<p>Which Tristan considered before rejecting with a twist of the hand.  Ahead of them, the traffic crept forward three inches, which he swiftly closed before turning to Gawain.  “A couple of them are, marginally.  Arthur’s not in the business any more, and I never plan to be, but we’d be stupid not to pay attention to it.”</p>
<p>Gawain could understand and respect that, considering his background.  He still kept in touch with K through his cousin Bed, and once in a while he phoned a girl he knew who still lived in the neighborhood.  He had to be careful since there was still a chance the cops were poking about their participation in what people were now calling the Knight War—after the name of Gawain’s old gang—but if he ever wanted to set foot in L. A. again, he needed to keep track of things.  No one could ever really predict which old grudge would die and which wouldn’t, and when he’d been younger and stupider, he’d sowed his share of those.</p>
<p>“You haven’t asked about this morning yet,” Tristan abruptly said.  Puzzlement and worry faintly showed through his calm attitude.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, you didn’t seem to be too worried, so I figured it wasn’t worth asking about.”  That didn’t come out right.  It sounded like Gawain didn’t give a shit, and he did, only he didn’t want Tristan to think he would be shitty about it.  </p>
<p>There was too much shit in that thought for it to be any good.  Damn.</p>
<p>He winced and tried again.  “I mean, it’s kind of—it looked like it was Arthur’s problem as much as yours, and I can’t really bug you about Arthur.  Since I’m not dating him.”</p>
<p>“No,” Tristan acknowledged.  </p>
<p>An awkward pause followed, as usually did after one of them brought up Arthur.  Their relations to him were…vaguely talk-showish at best, and so neither of them had really wanted to figure out how he fit into everything.  Thing was, he was too significant a figure in both of their lives to not keep cropping up, so ignoring him was tricky.</p>
<p>When Tristan didn’t say anything after five minutes, the silence got to Gawain.  He really wished they were walking, or doing something that would’ve given his hands something to do.  Right now they were twitchy and he had no idea what to do with it, but he didn’t want Tristan to see.  “Was it something I was supposed to ask about?”</p>
<p>“Is it something you want to know about?”  They finally made it to the stoplight and Tristan whipped his car into what looked like a two-foot gap.  But even in New York, his car was monstrous enough to demand a certain respect and the others backed off.  Though not without cursing and finger-waving.</p>
<p>“What were we talking about again?”  It wasn’t that Gawain had lost track like an airhead so much as that he hadn’t ever been sure in the first place what they were discussing.  He wasn’t particularly good at the talk-about-one-thing-but-mean-another, and unfortunately, that seemed to be Tristan’s default for certain situations.  It probably had something to do with his upbringing, but even if he wanted to, Gawain wasn’t in any position to criticize upbringings.</p>
<p>Tristan opened his mouth, closed it, and then sighed.  “I’m trying to decide how much about this part of my life you should know about.  It could get you killed, and it’ll definitely complicate things.  But if you’re sticking around much longer, you’ll have to know something.”</p>
<p>“And I am sticking around longer,” Gawain firmly said.  He started to lean over, then remembered they were in public and had to settle for just looking meaningfully at Tristan.</p>
<p>Which was when something happened up front that gave Tristan the chance to floor the accelerator.  Gawain skidded across the seat, catching the gearshift in his stomach as he did, and rammed into Tristan’s thigh.  That and a sharp turn threw him forward so he clawed at Tristan’s knee till he’d hooked a hand around it.  Braced his feet against the floor and hoped that loud crash hadn’t been them.</p>
<p>“Sorry.  Reflex.”  After a few minutes, Tristan found a lane he liked and settled into a steady speed.  He peered down at Gawain through his hair.  “Did you hit your head or anything?”</p>
<p>“No, but I’d appreciate more warning next time.  God, you drive worse than Galahad.”  The hair over Tristan’s face blocked out Gawain’s view of his eyes, so he reached up and flicked back a few pieces.  Like usual, Tristan startled, looked a little confused, and then smiled.  Which reminded Gawain’s dick of certain unfulfilled matters and started it yammering again.  “This is a really bad position,” Gawain muttered.</p>
<p>He flopped his way up onto the seat and hauled himself up as best he could without kicking Tristan too much.  Then he redid his ponytail, which had snapped itself loose during all the crazy driving.  “Okay, I need to know some stuff.  What?”</p>
<p>“That’s the complicated part,” Tristan muttered, staring out the window.  “I thought I’d just start with showing you who I talk to when I’m keeping track of current news.  Most of them aren’t my friends—I know them through Arthur, and so I don’t even know a lot of what they do.  Or have done.”</p>
<p>“This might be a stupid question, but why do you do it instead of him?  Since they’re his friends.”  Damn, the hair-tie was broken.  And Gawain didn’t have a spare…he dangled the snapped elastic in front of Tristan, who jerked his chin at the glove compartment.  When Gawain opened that, the first thing he noticed was the large hunting knife.  He carefully lifted that up and dug around till he found a rubber band.  “I’m more used to seeing guns in here…”</p>
<p>Tristan laughed a little.  “The gun’s under the seat.  People check the glove compartment too often, and I can always say I need the knife for cutting up raptor food.”</p>
<p>Hair retied, Gawain leaned back in his seat and watched Tristan.  The other man didn’t exactly seem nervous, but he was definitely off.  Hopefully it wasn’t on Gawain’s account; maybe he didn’t know how the world of serious high crime worked, but he thought he’d learned a bit about being tactful and careful in L. A.</p>
<p>“I do it because it’s easier for me to get around to these places.  And because…I don’t mind doing it.  Arthur hates it.  He’s also got a reputation, which can be awkward.  Nobody really knows who I am.”  Up ahead, the light flashed yellow and Tristan sped up, not enough to jolt Gawain but enough to earn them a few more angry shouts.</p>
<p>Judging from the look of the buildings they were passing, that probably was normal; they would’ve been noticeable if they’d driven nicely.  The houses were shrinking and growing more dilapidated, crouching between the numerous apartment buildings and tenements like forlorn refugees.  The graffiti was becoming more artistically confrontational, more about claiming territory than just saying someone had been there.  It looked a lot like Gawain’s old neighborhood.</p>
<p>“Nice thing for you, I bet.  There are places in L. A. that I probably still can’t go into without getting shot at.”  They were pulling up to what looked like a record store, but Gawain would’ve bet fifty that the group of men crouching on the steps weren’t dicing over candies.  When Tristan got up, one of them nodded and walked inside.  “Hey, I don’t mean to sound stupid, but I’m still not seeing how this is that complicated.”</p>
<p>Tristan glanced at him, then looked up at the sky.  It was sunny out and for once, the smog didn’t dull the brilliance of the light that made it through so Tristan’s face seemed sheathed in white gold.  Blinding and beautiful, and impossible to tell what his expression was.  “I thought it was going to be, but maybe not.  You’re taking this better than I thought.”</p>
<p>Gawain still didn’t understand, but he found himself grinning idiotically anyway.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>
  <i>4:30 P. M.</i>
</p>
<p>Galahad’s feet greeted Gawain as he walked in.  The other man was flopped over the couch, eyes closed and shirt riding up to show his stomach, and looked as if he’d spent the whole day doing hard labor.  For him, that might just mean he’d gotten up before noon.</p>
<p>“I take it you had fun,” Galahad muttered, flapping a hand at Gawain.  “You’re whistling.”</p>
<p>“So I am.”  Not that it actually had been fun—it’d been like every other parley Gawain had ever had to attend, which meant it’d been tense and serious with lots of inside jokes and insults flying over his head.  But Tristan in the backseat afterward had certainly been enjoyable.  “What’s with you?”</p>
<p>The feet went down and Galahad’s head came up to show how sour he looked.  “Mariette showed up after you’d left.  Her car broke down, and she dragged me out to do something about it, and the upshot’s I promised her to spend the next month fixing it.”</p>
<p>Gawain nearly ran into the kitchen counter.  Choking, he pulled himself straight and hung onto the fridge door-handle for support.  “What?  You hate her and you suck at fixing cars.”</p>
<p>“I do not!  Suck at fixing cars, I mean.”  After a moment of staring, Galahad slunk back down to hide.  “Okay, I do.  But she wouldn’t fucking leave and…well, her car’s in Bed’s hands.  He’ll fix it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, as long as you keep reminding him it’s not raw material for one of his sculptures.”  Upon further thought, Gawain decided that it might be a good development for Galahad.  It’d get him away from the bubbleheads he usually dated, and if he was spending time with Mariette, that pretty much guaranteed that Gawain wouldn’t be walking in on any sex.  They’d cut the time they spent cleaning the floor in half.</p>
<p>“So how was the zoo?” Galahad asked.</p>
<p>For a moment, Gawain thought about making up something, but he really didn’t like lying.  On the other hand, he also didn’t feel like having a big argument with an offended Galahad.  “We never made it there, actually.  Ended up stopping by to see some people…he and Arthur know.”</p>
<p>“He and Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Well, it was…”  Sort of weird, and the whole thing kept bugging Gawain a bit because he had the feeling he was supposed to see more into it than just Tristan making introductions.  Granted, it was letting him see a side of Tristan’s life that probably no one else got to see, and he did realize exactly how much that meant.</p>
<p>Thing was, he didn’t seem to be feeling it.  The whole matter had been done smoothly and without any mistakes, and it had all been very un-climatic.  He knew it was important, but the importance just wasn’t hitting him yet.  That would probably happen when he was trying to sleep, Gawain snorted.</p>
<p>“…weird?”  Galahad sat up again and hooked his arms over the couch back.  “Well, think about it.  You’re dating the…the whatchamacallit—the ward of your advisor, who used to be some superspy and now teaches philosophy when he’s not banging one of the two Interpol agents that he—”</p>
<p>“How is it that you can make everything sound like a bad soap opera?”  Maybe if Gawain started dinner, it’d drown out the sound of Galahad.  He opened up the fridge and took stock: they had to go grocery-shopping soon.  But tonight they could probably survive, though he’d have to get creative with the pork rounds.</p>
<p>Offended huffing from the couch.  “Oh, don’t be such a wet rag.  Come on.  We’re orphans raised by your grandma in one of L. A.’s toughest neighborhoods, and we’re going to grad school on the East Coast because on the West, some jackass started a fight because he didn’t get the frosting rose he wanted and now we’ve got bodies buried in our old backyard.”</p>
<p>“Which is all true, but do you really have to make it sound so damn sordid?  Shit happened.  It wasn’t pretty.  We lived through it.  Where did you put the onions?  I know we’ve got some left.”  And maybe Gawain should ask Tristan where he got his knives, because they could use a new butcher’s one.</p>
<p>“<i>You’re</i> touchy.  Did you two have a fight?”  Galahad finally got the energy to get up and help Gawain find the other sack of onions, which were stuffed behind the dirty laundry, of all places.</p>
<p>Next stop, washing them really, really good, because Galahad’s gym socks could qualify as biohazards.  “No.  I don’t think so.  I don’t know—it was just…Tristan was trying to do something and I couldn’t figure out what, because he was trying not to show that he was doing something, but he still wanted me to know.  Or something.  God, I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you should call a girl—call up Elaine and ask her about it.  Sounds like her kind of stuff.”  For once, Galahad was being thoughtful.  Mariette and the inevitable scraping she and he always got into must have really worn him out.  “Or, you know, you could just ask him.  That never works with women, but maybe it does with men?”</p>
<p>“Is that why your break-ups usually end with your ex slapping you?  Hey, go get the garlic for me.”  Onions washed and diced, but there was nowhere to put them so Gawain just shoved them to the side of the cutting board.  That didn’t leave him much room for trimming the fat off the rounds, but if he twisted around his elbows, he could just manage.  “Dating men and dating women aren’t that different, you moron.”</p>
<p>Thumping sounds, since Galahad took a weird pleasure in beating garlic cloves out of their skins.  Hopefully he didn’t pound so hard that the juice soaked into the counter and stank up the place.  “Yeah?  You were Mr. Thanks-But-I’m-A-Nice-Boy for years and years to keep from having to fake interest in a girl.  What would you know?”</p>
<p>“When I was fourteen, I messed around with Elaine a few times trying to figure out why I wasn’t interested.  And honestly, you don’t have to fuck a girl to get to know her.  Actually, you usually get to know her better if you don’t fuck her.”  Gawain was almost ready to click on the stove when he realized Galahad had gone awfully quiet.</p>
<p>When he turned around, he saw that Galahad had also gone awfully pale and shocked.  The other man’s mouth was working like a fish gulping water, and it was several minutes before he could manage to say anything.  “You—you and Elaine?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, she was old enough to know how to make up for what I didn’t know, and I figured if it didn’t work out, she’d just punch me once before she let me explain things.”  Where was the frying pan…ah, way over on the windowsill.  Now why it was there was an even better question, but Gawain thought he’d leave it be for the moment and just wash that really well, too.  He rinsed off his hands and went over, shaking the water from his fingers as he went.</p>
<p>“You and <i>Elaine</i>?”</p>
<p>It was really hard not to roll eyes.  “<i>What</i>?”</p>
<p>Tristan perched on the fire escape, that was what.  Gawain jumped, then glanced over his shoulder.  Much to his relief, Galahad was still a shellshocked statue facing the other way.  He turned back to the window and pushed it up to stick out his head.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Tristan said.  He had a squirrel on his shoulder that looked oddly like Galahad.</p>
<p>“Hi.”  The squirrel ran down Tristan’s arm to sit up in front of Gawain.  When he didn’t give it anything, it gnashed its teeth at him and hopped off.  “What are you doing?  Is the front way blocked up again?”</p>
<p>Behind Gawain, Galahad finally got his brains together.  “What?  What?  I had sex with her and she never said anything!  You’re like my brother, and you and I and she…ew.”</p>
<p>Some days Gawain really, really wanted to kill Galahad.  And then once in a while, he almost did it.  He held onto the windowsill, took a deep breath, and told himself that he’d promised Grandma Yvie not to strangle the bastard.  “Long story.  I’ll tell you later,” he muttered to Tristan.  “So do you want to come in, or—”</p>
<p>“No, I’m off in a moment.  I just forgot to ask you something.”  Whereupon Tristan sat back and didn’t say anything.</p>
<p>Gawain waited.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything!  It’s…it’s…it’s almost like incest!”</p>
<p>“No, it’s not.”  The window-frame felt nice and cool against Gawain’s pounding temple.  He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he also needed Galahad to meet the rent.  “Galahad, for fuck’s sake.  I was fourteen and the furthest we got were fingers because it turned out my dick really wasn’t interested.  It’s not even like she dated us in the same year.  By the time you got to her, I was very definitely limiting myself to guys.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like a really long story.”  A flash of a grin, but then Tristan went back to looking stonefaced and…uncertain, if the way he was picking at the rusty bars of the fire escape was any indication.  He rolled his shoulders some, as if trying to stretch out some tension.</p>
<p>Gawain screwed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Yeah.  What’d you want?”</p>
<p>“I…Arthur’s old-fashioned.  He doesn’t know I’ve been letting you help me with…matters concerning his and my past.”  Tristan wasn’t making much sense, and more importantly, he looked like he knew he wasn’t making any sense.  He actually bit his lip.  “He does know I’m seeing you, but he sort of pretends he doesn’t because I haven’t…formally introduced you.”</p>
<p>“As…what?  Your boyfriend?”  It was confusing, but not as much as Tristan seemed to think it was.  Some of Gawain’s Chicano friends had families like that, and they’d never stopped complaining about it.</p>
<p>Vague hand movements, and if Gawain looked closely, a faint flush across Tristan’s cheeks.  “Yes, but more…more like…I want him to know I’m letting you go downtown with me.”</p>
<p>“Okay.  I already promised him that Galahad and I were going to keep his background a secret.  That day in the Interpol office, remember?”</p>
<p>“I know that, but this is not exactly the same.”  Now Tristan was beginning to look frustrated at himself.  “Gawain, I’m asking you if I can—”</p>
<p><i>Oh.</i>.  Okay.  Yeah, now Gawain got it.  And now that he had, he felt really stupid for not getting it earlier.  Especially with his own goddamned gangland background.  He really should’ve known.</p>
<p>He was really…he kind of didn’t want to think about it because he didn’t want to break what he had.  But Tristan was about to work himself into a minor fit, so Gawain had to do something.  So he grabbed Tristan’s hand and pulled at it till Tristan looked at him.  “Yeah.  Definitely.  And hey, if you ever feel like dropping into L. A., I’m hoping to visit there eventually.  We’ve got wild coyotes.”</p>
<p>Tristan just stared at him.  Then the other man dropped through the window to spin Gawain against the wall and kissed him hard.</p>
<p>“Oh, for…you weren’t even listening, were you?”  In the background, Galahad stomped off.</p>
<p>When they came up for air, Tristan had a wondering look in his eyes.  “You make this easy.”</p>
<p>Gawain grinned and rubbed his thumb along Tristan’s cheek.  “Thanks.  So…what does this require, anyway?  Dinner or something?  Do I need to buy a suit?”</p>
<p>“You’re making me late,” Tristan muttered.  Which didn’t make sense till he pulled shut the window and started sliding down Gawain.  And then it didn’t have to make sense.  It just was.</p>
<p>Dinner could wait a second.</p>
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